Drunk
by SabineLaGrande
Summary: Set sometime between Jupiter Jazz Part I and Bohemian Rhapsody. Spike gets drunk, and Faye has to babysit. SxF.


A/N: So July was a bad month for me, what with massive computer troubles and being sick almost the entire time. And I'm sorry I haven't updated my chapterfic(s). But here's a little ficlet for you.

-

He's drunk.  
  
Maybe that's an understatement. He's well past drunk. Drunk was two hours ago. Drunk has already called it a night and turned in.  
  
I'm not entirely sure that I blame him. Any other night, I'd be right there on the floor with him, fighting for the whiskey. But... not tonight. I don't really know why. Well, I know why, but I'd have to admit it to myself to really know, and I'm not quite prepared to do that right now. So I'm still a little unsettled by... him? her? I don't even know. I just don't want to be alone right now.   
  
Even if it means company that is currently engaged in rubbing against my leg.  
  
He's really drunk.  
  
"Shouldn't you be passed out by now?" I ask, more to distract myself than wanting an answer.  
  
He slurs out a response, something trying to be, "I hold my liquor very well, thank you," but failing miserably.  
  
A fluffy green head comes to rest on my knee. Oh, hell no. I shake my head at him, which of course he doesn't notice. No. Absolutely not. We are not going to play this game. I try to push him away. I am good. I am noble. I am, more crucially, sober. I will be a good babysitter.  
  
With much less difficulty than it deserves (God, he's still lithe, how is that even possible?), he's sitting next to me, looking me in the eye (how are his eyes clear?), not two inches from my face. "Kiss me," he says. Doesn't really ask. Doesn't quite command. Just says.  
  
He must be drunk.  
  
And while I'm looking at his lips and trying not to, and cursing myself for stupidly vowing not to get involved with him and for not wanting to take advantage of him like this, and wondering what's with my recent nice girl kick, and half hoping he's kidding while desperately praying he's not, and wondering if it's really taking advantage of someone if they ask, he just does. I almost want to laugh; it's so like him. He just does.  
  
He's far better at kissing than anyone really has a right to be, which is stopping me from pulling back. Or that's my excuse. I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that my hands are on his chest and God it feels good. He sort of growls and pulls me closer, and I want to laugh again, except that this time it's because it's not like him at all.  
  
How drunk is he really?  
  
I didn't have a chance in all this, did I? I lost this game the moment I stepped onto this wreck of a ship. Never had much luck when I wasn't cheating. Maybe it's this thought that makes me pull back. "You're drunk," I tell him. My hand, which is obviously in some conspiracy against me, strays down and brushes against... something. That shouldn't be there. It doesn't register for a moment. Oh, hell.   
  
He notices. Of course. And smirks. "I told you I held my liquor well," he says, triumphant. Always a pompous ass. Except that I forget to think that, because now he's picked me up and is carrying me off. I always thought that was a cliche. Apparently not. And the wheels are starting to turn. How long ago did he finish that bottle? Does he just enjoy sitting on the floor? But there's little room for logical thought when he sets me gently (why was I expecting to bounce?) on his bed.   
  
Why is he not drunk?  
  
This is far past the point where I'm supposed to have made some cutting remark. He's supposed to suddenly remember that I'm not little miss perfectly tragic, whatever the hell her name is (yes I know very well her name is Julia, and I do not give a good goddamn). However, at this moment, I'm not quite interested in doing that. And I'm not quite interested in any promises I may or may not have made to myself or to anyone else.  
  
By now he's on the bed, or really on me, and my top is on the floor, my suspenders in the vague region of my ankles. And I'm slightly disturbed by the fact that I seem to have completely forgotten about being good, and, furthermore, I don't care. Cause it isn't a fantasy that's touching me, kissing his way down my body. This is real. And I'm trying to remind myself, because this doesn't happen.  
  
My head is spinning, and I don't care, I don't care at all. Don't care if it doesn't make sense, don't care about losing, don't care about giving in. In fact, I'm smiling bigger than Ed, who I really didn't need to think about right now. I'm going to enjoy this, because this is mine. It's better than whiskey.  
  
Why do I feel so drunk?


End file.
